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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093634">The Journey On</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetryInMotion/pseuds/PoetryInMotion'>PoetryInMotion</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adorable Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), Angst, Din Djarin has heart eyes, Din and Omera finally get some alone time, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Found Family, One Shot, Romance, clan of four</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:54:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,947</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetryInMotion/pseuds/PoetryInMotion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots set between "In the Aftermath" and "Sanctuary." The Clan of Four spends their interim between Sorgan and Nevarro laying low, exploring the galaxy, and getting used to their newly-formed family unit. Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, family feels--you name it, it'll probably be here. :)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Repairs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Razor Crest was a fine ship—that fact couldn't be denied on any front. Not that Din had ever been fussy about living quarters. But the Razor Crest had become an extension of him. It got him where he needed to go, but it had also become an infallible shelter; it was as close to home as he ever imagined having. However, the minute Omera and Winta stepped foot in the hold, Din started cataloging all of the modifications he needed to make. Because the Razor Crest was a fine ship—for a single bounty hunter and a baby in a reinforced cradle. But for four people to live comfortably (or, at least, acceptably) in her hull, she was going to need some upgrades, and fast.</p><p> </p><p>Seatbelts were the first thing on the list. And some seats to go with them, if possible. Din punched in coordinates—the Shipbreaking Yard would have parts for cheap. They'd hardly taken off, and Sorgan was already shrinking below them as they accelerated, until it was nothing but a jade bead sewn into the fabric of space.</p><p> </p><p>He heard Omera's voice from the hold:</p><p> </p><p>“All right, Winta. I think you can let go now.”</p><p> </p><p>A bed. Omera had to sleep somewhere, and they had <em>de facto </em><span>agreed to give the berth to Winta, since the child had his cradle. A bed for Omera and—and. Din shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. Just because Omera had decided to come with him didn't mean she wanted to share a bed with him yet, in any sense of the word. Did it? </span></p><p> </p><p>“What does it look like out there?” Winta's voice, still brittle, but with an overtone of light that he hadn't heard in a long time.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe you should come up and look,” he called over his shoulder. Moments later, he heard Winta gingerly climbing up to the cockpit.</p><p> </p><p>The first time Din saw space, he was six years old. About thirty years of traversing the galaxy had made him numb to it all—the way the darkness felt expansive but not all-consuming, the way the white stars winked, sometimes whirling together in arrays of color and light; space hadn't felt cold to six-year-old Din. No, it had surrounded him like a warm blanket, like the one his father had tucked around him as he sat buckled in a seat in the cockpit, still shaking with adrenaline. That blanket had worn thin with use, and the galaxy had lost its magic in the mundane of his work. But when he turned and watched as Winta got her first look at space, Din was taken right back to that day, when all the worst of his life was eased, even for a moment, by something both new and ancient, both enormous and brushing right up against the window.</p><p> </p><p>Winta froze, balancing herself against the doorframe. Her mouth opened, as if she wanted to say something, but all that came out was a wordless sigh that almost sounded like “whoa.” Din smiled under his helmet, extending his arm and beckoning.</p><p> </p><p>“Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>She took a few tentative steps into the cockpit, her eyes wandering across the expanse outside the window. Din turned back to the controls, making sure that they were still on track.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you think?” he asked.</p><p> </p><p>Winta's gaze couldn't be turned from the stars.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “There's so </span>
  <em>many</em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“And this is just a tiny part of them. There are billions and billions of stars, hundreds of moons, hundreds of planets.”</p><p> </p><p>“And we can go to all of them?”</p><p> </p><p>Din almost said yes, until he remembered the uninhabited, the suspicious, the cursed corners of the galaxy. He shrugged.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, there are a few places that are...not friendly.”</p><p> </p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Winta finally turn to face him.</p><p> </p><p>“They're the ones who are after little brother.”</p><p> </p><p>Din shifted in his seat, thumbs tapping at the steering.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he replied, “some of them are. But there are more good places than bad, I think.” He was suddenly grateful for his ability to lie.</p><p> </p><p>Winta lingered on him for a moment, then drifted to the controls.</p><p> </p><p>“When are we going there?”</p><p> </p><p>Din snapped his attention to her, balancing herself on the edge of the control panel, staring at the nav screen with the seriousness of a soldier.</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>Winta looked back at him.</p><p> </p><p>“We're gonna go fight them, right? So they stop following us. Are we going there now?” she asked, turning back to the nav screen.</p><p> </p><p>“Winta, I think that's enough for now.” Din hadn't heard Omera climbing up, but he was glad to hear her voice. She always seemed to be able to fill in his blanks. “Why don't you go play with little brother?”</p><p> </p><p>“But Mama, I just got up here!”</p><p> </p><p>“And you'll have plenty more chances to see everything. Go on.”</p><p> </p><p>Begrudgingly, Winta stepped back from the controls and turned back toward the door.</p><p> </p><p>“I'll show you the controls in a little while,” Din said over his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Winta looked back at him, nodded, and carefully descended back into the hold.</p><p> </p><p>Omera, meanwhile, laid a hand on the shoulder of the pilot's chair, taking her own look at the screen.</p><p> </p><p>“Bracca?” Omera's tone sounded somewhere between a question and a statement.</p><p> </p><p>“I've got a past client in the Scrapper's Guild. Owes me some parts.”</p><p> </p><p>“And after that?”</p><p> </p><p>Din sighed. If he was being honest, he hadn't thought that far ahead.</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” he answered after a few moments, “we've got to keep moving to get the Imps off of our backs. It'll probably be a few months before we can settle. Until then, we move randomly.”</p><p> </p><p>Din kept his face forward, navigating with half of his attention. With the other half, he watched Omera's reflection in the window. She turned and set herself quietly on the passenger seat, cradling one hand with the other in her lap. Her back stood straight, not making contact with the back of the chair. The unfiltered light from the stars dusted her skin with silver, and her eyes traced every constellation. Winta had been discovering; Omera was remembering.</p><p> </p><p>“It's been a long time since I've been out here.” Her voice wasn't subject to the ship's artificial gravity.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it how you remember it?”</p><p> </p><p>Omera leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.</p><p> </p><p>“There've been a few changes.”</p><p> </p><p>Din's mouth quirked up at one corner. It was nice to welcome flirtation for once.</p><p> </p><p>“Good changes?” he asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, I'm certainly enjoying the company.”</p><p> </p><p>Omera's smile grew for a moment,<span>then faded. She looked back out the window, face falling. Her hands became active, grasping each other, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. She bit her lower lip as if trying to keep her mouth closed until she figured out what should come out. Din decided to break the silence for her—he sensed that they were both concerned about the same thing.</span></p><p> </p><p>“Listen. About Winta, I...I froze.”</p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “I just...she </span>
  <em>just </em>
  <span>went through hell, and she's already talking about hunting Imperials.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> And normally, Din would have respected Winta for it. That level of determination in a foundling promised a fierce future warrior. That attitude had served him well when he started his own training in the fighting corps. But for some reason, when Winta was the one proposing a full assault, it felt different.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“She's not ready for that yet, not by a long shot,” he continued. “But at the same time, I don't think she's ready to start training.”</p><p> </p><p>Omera looked up at him.</p><p> </p><p>“When do Mandalorians usually start training?”</p><p> </p><p>Din huffed.</p><p> </p><p>“As soon as they can walk on their own. But with what she's just been through...my father put off my own training for a while after he found me. Gave me time to adjust. But I don't know how long we'll have before...”</p><p> </p><p>“...Before she's ready.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Before she </span>
  <em>has </em>
  <span>to be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Their reflections made eye contact. It was a watered-down kind of contact, distanced by both its indirect medium and Din's visor. It wasn't enough. Din reached for the auto-pilot. As he made a half-turn in his pilot's chair, he removed his helmet, setting it beside him on the floor. He ran one hand through his hair, then leaned toward Omera, resting his forearms on his thighs. Omera unfolded her legs, slipped her slender hands into his.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “I just... I want to protect...” Winta. The kid. </span>
  <em>Our </em>
  <span>kids. You. </span>
  <em>You</em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>Us.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Omera squeezed his hands in reassurance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“You will. You always have.”</p><p> </p><p>“Really? Was I there when your village was destroyed, when Winta was kidnapped? Was I there to protect you then?”</p><p> </p><p>“You couldn't have known that they were going to trace you back to us. And that's beside the point anyway. That's all over now.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is it? Winta is going to have all of that in her head for the rest of her life—trust me, I would know. She doesn't deserve that.”</p><p> </p><p>“But it happened anyway. As much as I hate that it happened, it did. But it wasn't your fault, Din. If Winta's kidnapping was anyone's fault, it was mine for not paying enough attention.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don't you dare blame yourself—”</p><p> </p><p>“Then why are you doing the same?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din stopped short, finding no reply. Omera sighed, leaning closer to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“Din...we don't have time to play this blaming game. We have to worry about what's happening right now. And right now, you're here. <em>We're</em> here.”</p><p> </p><p>“And that's something I can't understand.” Din stiffened, looked anywhere but Omera as words poured out of him.</p><p> </p><p>“I was trained to prepare for anything. I've planned for everything that could go wrong in a fight, every survival scenario, every possibility. Every single one. Except for this. I don't...I never thought that I would...that anybody would want...me.” His shoulders sloped forward as his gaze finally landed on their hands, intertwined. He could feel the warmth of her grasp starting to seep through his gloves.</p><p> </p><p>“Din.”</p><p> </p><p>He looked up. Omera's eyes met his.</p><p> </p><p>“I knew from the minute I saw you.”</p><p> </p><p>The minute she saw him...Din took himself back to the barn on Sorgan, his first glance at Omera as she finished raising the window slats—how the early afternoon sunlight made her golden, how she hesitated before she told him to come in, and how immediately he felt his guard dropping as he got to know her and her daughter. In that moment, had he also known, deep down, that something was going to come from their connection?</p><p> </p><p>“...Really?”</p><p> </p><p>Omera leaned forward a little more, giving him a tender smile.</p><p> </p><p>“Really.”</p><p> </p><p>At a loss for anything else to do or say, Din closed what little gap was left between them.</p><p> </p><p>Of all the things he needed to get used to, he was certain that this feeling, this coming-together, would be the last to become normal. But that was all right. He liked how the coolness of the nerves creeping up from his gut combined with the warmth and soft motions of her lips. He liked the breeze of her breath against his skin as they parted, and the certain kind of light that came alive behind her eyes when she looked at him. She saw him, and <em>saw </em>him, and saw <em>him.</em> When she looked at him, he felt that he was no longer Mando, some anonymous archetype from a bygone age. He was Din: nothing more, and nothing less.</p><p> </p><p>To be wanted for himself—not for his skills or his reputation, but for his heart—<em>that </em>was a gift he hoped would never fade.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sleeping Arrangements I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Omera considers her past and future instead of falling asleep.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(In other words, There! Was! Only! One! Bed!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Din snored. Not enough to be obnoxious, but just enough to notice.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Although, Omera supposed, even if he wasn't snoring, she would still be awake hours after laying down to sleep. It had been so long since she had shared a bed with someone—how different it felt to hear a second set of breaths, the subtle whirr of an air conditioner, a solitary beeping noise that emanated from the cockpit, where before there was silence, broken only by the crickets and night birds.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She glanced over at Din. Even when he slept, even with his helmet off, he looked every inch the warrior. He lay flat on his back, one arm at his side while the other rested on his ab plate. Every line of his face was still there. It seemed that even in sleep, he couldn't shake his worries.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He'd been so...shy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Right after they tucked the children in (and, judging by how quickly they fell asleep, bedtime couldn't have come a moment sooner), there had been a moment where neither of them really knew what to do. Earlier that day, Din had found a bed that would fit them both and attached it to the wall with hinges so it could be folded away when they didn't need it. Wordlessly, they'd lowered it to the ground, set it with blankets and a couple of pillows. All the while, Omera had noticed that Din's face was starting to grow a slow shade of red, and when she caught him looking at her, his eyes darted away. The freshly-made bed had stood between them, saying everything that they couldn't bring themselves to say.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well...good night.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>To her confusion, he'd turned away, started walking toward the ladder to the cockpit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Where are you going?” she'd asked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Din turned back toward her. His mouth formed a tight line that opened slightly as he tried to articulate whatever was in his head. He gestured to the bed, then to her, then to himself with one of his gloved hands. The slow red in his cheeks started to quicken.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Well, I mean...I was going to...”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wouldn't you rather stay here?” <em>With me?</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The tightness in Din's shoulders eased. He'd managed a nervous smile as he came back over to her.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “I didn't want to assume,” he'd said.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Polite. Always polite.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Din shifted in his sleep next to her, which was no easy task. Omera had no idea how he could fall asleep wearing his full armor. <em>Too polite</em><span>. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> It would take time—Omera knew that in her heart. It would take time, and justifiably so, for Din to expose his vulnerabilities to her, to remove all of his armor, within and without. She couldn't expect him to instantly know how to handle a relationship like theirs was going to be. After all, from how nervously he'd tried to kiss her the first time, she could tell he'd never been in a relationship before. At least, not like theirs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> She knew all of this. And she understood all of this. And she accepted all of this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Yet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Laying next to Din, fully armored and fast asleep, Omera suddenly, keenly, felt </span>
  <em>lonely</em>
  <span>. These last ten years, she had tried so hard to suppress that gnawing ache in the corner of her heart, and for the most part, she succeeded. It rarely resurfaced. When Winta said her first word and it was “da-da-da-da,” she wept. When she would wake up from a dream, drenched in sweat, tension coiled in her belly, and there was no one there to cling to, she would weep. But as for the rest, she carried on. Instead of wallowing, instead of becoming the pitiful widow driven to madness by grief, she stood tall, pulled her weight in the village and more, raised a beautiful, intelligent, independent daughter. The pain of the empty bed became numb, scar tissue—easily forgotten.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> But now that ache was back, with ten year's worth of force. It was all so </span>
  <em>close—</em>
  <span>being held again, kissed again, made love to again. Omera tried to imagine it in her mind, tried to let herself </span>
  <em>want</em>
  <span> for once. She could practically feel Din's arms around her, could feel him clinging to her as if she were his only lifeline, could hear him crying her name from beneath her, or above her, or beside...</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “...'Mera...”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> Startled from her thoughts, Omera turned her attention back to Din. Still asleep, but clearly dreaming, his breathing hitched and his face turned toward her. The hand closest to her flexed, his bare fingers brushing between hers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “...O...mer...a,” he whispered again, as if, in his dream, her name was honey that he wanted to savor for as long as possible.<br/></span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> She couldn't rush this. There was something new about this moment, something precious, something she'd never had before; it would be a shame, a real shame, to squander it by yearning too far into a future she knew was coming. It was only a matter of time, of patience. But for now...</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> She laced her fingers with his and brought his hand to her lips, pressing one kiss to it, then another. His hand clenched in hers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “</span>
  <em>Cyare.</em>
  <span>” His murmuring had a halting quality now, as if he were calling out to her as she walked away. His eyes closed tighter, his brows drawing together. “</span>
  <em>Cyare</em>
  <span>...”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “I'm here,” she whispered. Her heart knew exactly what that word meant, even if her mind didn't. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “I'm right here.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Mando'a Note: "cyare" means "beloved."</p>
<p>So sorry for the short chapter. This week has been absolute madness with finals, but I'm happy to announce that I am now the proud owner of a Bachelor's degree in English! Now that I've graduated, I'll have a lot more time to work on these stories, as well as Sanctuary. Expect an explosion of content in the coming weeks :)</p>
<p>Love until next week!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sleeping Arrangements II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a recurring dream gets a new ending.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The dream was strange, even in its familiarity.</p><p> </p><p>Din sat on the porch of the hut, leaning back in a chair that had no business being so comfortable. His muscles ached with the satisfying soreness of a day's work well done. The sun's warmth draped itself on his bare skin. He wore no armor, no helmet, not even the undergarments that attached to the armor. It all lay in a neat, organized pile in one corner of the porch. His helmet sat on top, newly-polished, gazing at him like an old friend. Din's arms and chest lay bare, if a little sunburnt, and his legs hid under a loose pair of work pants—not the plates that normally protected them.</p><p> </p><p>Theirs seemed to be the only hut in existence. The field lay expansive and green, lush with crops; one large krill pond flashed like a mirror in the summer daylight. The cooler shadows of the forest lingered around the edges of the clearing, one tree, in particular, throwing its shade over the hut as the sun waned. The children hardly noticed the dimming of the day. Winta passed a ball to the child, who caught it in the air and floated it back to her. The child seemed taller, and the noises he made started to sound like words. After an especially difficult catch, they laughed, and that laugh echoed through the clearing like birdsong.</p><p> </p><p>“Dinner's ready!”</p><p> </p><p>Din turned his head to the door as Omera came out, wiping her hands on her apron. And it hit him, once again, just how beautiful she was. In the summer evening, every inch of her seemed to glow, from the black rivulets of her hair to the curve of her lips as they separated in a broad grin. A gold band glinted on her finger as she rested her hand on her stomach, heavy with pregnancy. Any day now. A son or a daughter. His own flesh, his own blood.</p><p> </p><p>“Omera,” he breathed. It was all he could manage. “Omera.”</p><p> </p><p>She didn't seem to notice him as she stepped toward the children, admonishing them good-naturedly for the mud on their faces. Din stood to help her down the step, but as his right arm darted out, it turned to steel and fell, senseless, to his side.</p><p> </p><p>It took all of his strength to keep himself upright as he tentatively reached with his left arm. He watched, horrified, as the fingers faded into silvery beskar. Yet he kept pressing his arm through whatever invisible curtain kept him apart from the rest; Omera needed help. She was going to fall.</p><p> </p><p>His arms weighed him down to the ground, but he kept moving forward, digging his feet into the porch so hard that it disintegrated into splinters. He felt his feet getting heavier and knew what happened without needing to look. Omera had one foot off the porch and she was starting to drop.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Cy'are</em><span>,” he groaned, and his voice tasted like metal. “</span><em>Cy'are</em><span>...”</span></p><p> </p><p>And that was where he usually woke up, with Omera about to fall, and himself turned to solid beskar, unable to help her. The dream, when it was over, would leave a dead weight on his chest and flood his heart with strange things he didn't know he wanted, or needed.</p><p> </p><p>But not this time.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> This time, Omera righted herself. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. Steadying herself on one of the porch beams, she lowered herself to the ground. She lifted his left arm as if it weighed nothing, took his hand in hers, and pressed a kiss to it—once, then twice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“I'm here,” she said. Her voice echoed as if it were a long way off, and whispered as if it were right next to his ear. “I'm right here.”</p><p> </p><p>The beskar was gone in an instant. Din sucked in a breath, flexed one arm, then the other. Ambushed by the relief of it all, Din got to his knees and crushed Omera to his chest, kissing her—fiercely, tenderly, in every way she deserved to be kissed, in every way he didn't know in the waking world. She kissed back, the details blurry but the sensation electrifying. Her arms held him fast as he released, nuzzled and kissed at the crook of her neck, and sighed. The baby kicked under his hand.</p><p> </p><p>/////</p><p> </p><p>Din woke with a gasp, his mouth tingling.</p><p> </p><p>He blinked up at the ceiling of the Razor Crest, stunned. Before, when the dream ended with himself transfigured into solid steel, he took it as a discipline. His dream-self deserved that punishment, that permanent reminder of what he was, what he always had to be. He was reaching for something that he couldn't have—it would be best to forget about it. About a peaceful house. About three children. About her.</p><p> </p><p>What, then, was this new ending?</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.”</p><p> </p><p>Din turned his head and met Omera's eyes. He felt pressure on his left hand and realized that Omera was holding it to her chest, tracing the space between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. No, this wasn't just some extension of the dream—not only were they not in a sunny field in the middle of nowhere, but Omera did not wear a wedding band, and her silhouette under the blanket did not curve in any unusual places.</p><p> </p><p>But she was <em>there.</em> She was lying next to him, holding his hand, and bringing her other hand up to cover his.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>More details of the scene came into his awareness. Silver. His arm was still silver.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I have my hand back?”</p><p> </p><p>Reluctantly, Omera pulled her hands away. Din bolted up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Still blinking the sleep from his eyes, he fumbled with the latches on his braces until they fell open on his lap. He set them both gently on the floor as he heard Omera sit up behind him.</p><p> </p><p>“Din. Are you all right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Holding my hand with these on couldn't have been comfortable.”</p><p> </p><p>Sleeping with his braces on had never been comfortable, either. He wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd taken them off. He rubbed at his wrist, sore where it had impressed on his skin.</p><p> </p><p>“You don't have to do that, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Din nodded, considered for a moment. Then he unlatched his left shoulder pauldron. It detached from his flak vest, along with the base plate, and he rolled his shoulder as he set it on the floor next to his braces.</p><p> </p><p>“I know. But I want to.”</p><p> </p><p>He unlatched the right pauldron and laid it with its mate and the braces. He adjusted on the edge of the bed and turned fully toward Omera.</p><p> </p><p>“Omera, I...I know this probably isn't...easy.”</p><p> </p><p>A strand of Omera's hair fell out of her braid as she tilted her head and leaned toward him, taking his hands in hers.</p><p> </p><p>“Sweetheart, it's all right. We'll take things as slowly as you need.”</p><p> </p><p>Din barely registered any word beyond the first. Sweetheart. <em>Sweetheart.</em> The rest of the sentence was painted with kindness and reassurance after hearing that first endearment.</p><p> </p><p>“You called me sweetheart.” Din's tone was deadpan.</p><p> </p><p>Omera laughed under her breath.</p><p> </p><p>“Isn't that what <em>cy'are</em> means? You talk in your sleep,” she added in response to his shocked expression. Yes. That made more sense than the other option—that Omera could see into his dreams.</p><p> </p><p>“It means something closer to 'beloved,'” he murmured.</p><p> </p><p>Omera brought one hand up to his cheek, her touch warm and already familiar.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Cy'are</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Omera's pronunciation didn't matter—the word had never meant more than it did now, in this moment. Din turned his face and pressed a kiss to her palm, bringing his own hand up to cover hers.</p><p> </p><p>Even in the dark of the unlit hull, he could tell that dark circles still sat under Omera's eyes. He smiled at her, then leaned back onto the bed. He spread his left arm out to the side—an invitation. Omera accepted it, laying on her side and curling into his. He brought her into an embrace, his hand curling around her arm. She nestled into his shoulder and rested a hand on his chest plate, blinked her eyes closed.</p><p> </p><p>“Sleep well, love.”</p><p> </p><p>Din was certain that, as long as Omera lay next to him, he would.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We are less than ONE MONTH AWAY from “Sanctuary”!!! To say I'm excited is an understatement to say the least.</p><p>Just a quick announcement in case you didn't see it on my Twitter or Tumblr—I have started a once-weekly video series called the Mid-Week Round-Up, released on Wednesdays! It's a series in which I talk about that week's update and my writing process, as well as answering your questions and reading your comments. SO! If you have questions about this week's chapter, or any other piece I've written, OR anything at all, put them in the comments here, or DM me on Twitter or Tumblr (links in my bio). Don't be strangers :) See you soon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Seeds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Din surprises Omera.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun on Ilian hung bright over the market stalls and canopies, intensifying the colors of the patchwork below. Voices volleyed off of each other as vendors vied for the attention of the steady stream of possible customers. The heat of the day was only compounded by the cookfires, roasting, baking, stewing all manner of foods, as well as the proximity of the dense crowd to each other. The air lay heavy with spices and sweat, perfumes and refuse.</p><p> </p><p>For as remote as this market was, Din's hackles still rose every time he saw someone make brief eye contact with him, and even more when he caught someone looking at Omera and Winta as they wove through the crowd ahead of him. Though Din would have preferred for someone to stay with the Razor Crest, he wasn't entirely sure what supplies they needed. Omera and Winta had left Sorgan with practically nothing, and while they had made do for a couple of weeks, their clothes were starting to go thin with constant wear. Besides, the child and Winta were both starting to go stir-crazy. It would do them both good to get some air, to be in proximity to people again.</p><p> </p><p>Winta took the lead, pulling Omera along by the hand. Her eyes sought out every corner of the market, drinking it all in. They had already had a long, successful day—both Din and Omera's packs were full, and Omera had a bolt of fabric tucked under one arm—but Winta hardly seemed to realize she'd been on her feet for a few hours straight. Her eyes were bright, and the smile on her face was the widest they'd seen in weeks.</p><p> </p><p>“Mama, look!” Winta pointed just ahead of them to a stall with a gauzy, teal-blue canopy. Below it, flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors jostled in the wind, bending their heads every which way as if trying to catch someone's attention. “Your flowers!”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh my stars, they're beautiful!” Even above the bustle, Din could hear a change in Omera's tone—a change from all of the other affirmations of Winta's discoveries that day. “Your grandmother and I had a garden, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Personally, Din couldn't name a single flower if he had a blaster to his head. However, given both Winta and Omera's enthusiasm, he felt up to learning.</p><p> </p><p>“Why don't we stop in there? I think we could all use some shade,” he suggested. And he didn't have to say so twice.</p><p> </p><p>Din breathed a sigh of relief as they stepped under the flower merchant's canopy—as protective as his armor was, by its nature, it didn't breathe very well. The fluttering of the canopy turned the hot wind cool as it snuck under the edges of the beskar plates and breezed against his sweat-soaked flak vest. The stall was mercifully empty aside from the four of them and the proprietor, a young human man leaning on a counter, forearms bare under rolled-up sleeves. He hardly seemed to notice them entering, and Omera and Winta hardly seemed to notice him. Din, however, read every inch of his posture: indifferent, tired (and who could blame him, in this heat), maybe a little annoyed that their entrance had interrupted whatever reverie he'd been in—overall, not a threat.</p><p> </p><p>“I haven't seen these in ages!” Omera's voice rang with excitement as she gently held up a blue five-petaled bloom, rimmed with maroon.</p><p> </p><p>“What are they?” asked Winta, leaning in to deeply smell one closer to her. Almost immediately, her eyelids fluttered and Omera caught her as she stumbled back. “They smell real nice...”</p><p> </p><p>“They're called millaflowers,” Omera clarified, leaning down to her level, “and they can make you really sleepy if you smell them like that. Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Winta nodded, already perking back up. “Mm-hm.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good. They're from Naboo, you know,” she continued, more to the air than to Winta as she surveyed the other blossoms on the plant. “They like the sunlight there, and all the water.”</p><p> </p><p>“Have you ever been there?” Winta asked.</p><p> </p><p>“A couple of times, when I was about your age. These—” Omera's eye had been caught by another patch of flowers, dainty yellow blooms about the size of a fingernail, laying in a thick bed just down the row—“grow well there, too. They grow well anywhere, really. Like weeds. We used them for groundcover in the garden, but we always had to keep an eye on them so they didn't choke everything else out.”</p><p> </p><p>“What are they?” Din asked, curious in spite of himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Honeyblossoms. Want to know why they're called that?”</p><p> </p><p>Din shrugged. “Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Looking to see if the proprietor wasn't watching, Omera pinched off one of the honeyblossoms and handed it to Winta.</p><p> </p><p>“Try it,” she said. After giving her mother an unsure look, Winta put the flower in her mouth, her expression brightening as she chewed.</p><p> </p><p>“Like honey, right?” Omera said as she pinched off another. She turned to Din and placed the flower in the child's mouth. The child's ears perked—he clearly liked the taste, too.</p><p> </p><p>“My little sister and I would get into trouble for eating too many of them. My mother would say, 'Omera! Lyda! Do you want my garden to be bald?'”</p><p> </p><p>Omera laughed fondly at the memory, then let out a small breath as she looked around the sea of flowers.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she added, “just a quick look, I'd say almost all of these flowers are edible. Not those.” She pointed at and moved towards a group of tall, spindly-looking flowers with thick petals perched on top. “I don't know how they got blood orchids all the way out here, but they're poisonous to almost everything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why do they call them blood orchids?” Din asked. “They're pink.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your blood isn't when it starts coming out with your stool.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah.”</p><p> </p><p>“That's why you never put them in a bouquet. It's basically a death threat. The only thing that could make a bouquet like that more insulting is if you put hydras in with it. You deadhead one, and two more take its place. It's a nightmare.”</p><p> </p><p>And on she went, winding through the abundant flowers, naming each one and their various meanings. Din had never heard Omera speak so much, or so passionately. Every time she stopped by a particular flower, her voice took on a familiar cast, as if she were meeting old friends for the first time in years. And in listening to her, Din started noticing little things—how her touch changed with every flower (one was caressed, the other firmly lifted, and another rubbed between a thumb and a forefinger), how each flower seemed to have a memory attached to it, how beautiful each name sounded as she spoke it. She could spend hours in here, and he could spend hours here with her.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, though, the sun's light shifted, and the shadows of the bushes and flowers started to grow longer. Giving one last look around, Omera sighed.</p><p> </p><p>“Someday.” So much was packed in that someday.</p><p> </p><p>But as they passed the counter where the proprietor sat, now leaning his chair back on two legs, apparently asleep, Omera froze. Slowly, she reached towards the object that caught her eye: a bulb about the size of a peach pit, sitting in a tiny box surrounded by hay. In the evening light, the orange veins on it seemed to spark. Her fingers lifted it reverently from its case, turned it over, held it to the light.</p><p> </p><p>“What is it?” Din asked.</p><p> </p><p>“Flame-lilies.” Her voice seemed to catch on the breath in her throat. “Alderaanian flame-lilies. My mother, she...they were her...”</p><p> </p><p>Din's hand found the small of her back. She didn't need to say another word. He cleared his throat trying to get the vendor's attention. When that didn't work, he moved his hand and knocked on the counter. The young man jolted from his nap, and his eyes immediately snapped to where Omera was holding the flame-lily bulb.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey! Put that back!”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” Omera said distantly, placing the bulb gently back into its box. “It's just...I'm from Alderaan, that's all.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Sorry, I guess.” The flower vendor shrugged sheepishly.</p><p> </p><p>Din's arm wrapped around Omera's waist.</p><p> </p><p>“How much?” Din asked.</p><p> </p><p>The flower vendor raised an eyebrow, scoffed.</p><p> </p><p>“Not to be rude or anything, but...” he replied, giving the family a once-over, “I don't think you can afford it.”</p><p> </p><p>“How much.” Not so much a question as a statement of intent.</p><p> </p><p>The flower vendor sighed deeply, leaning forward on the counter.</p><p> </p><p>“5,000 credits. And that is me being <em>very </em><span>generous.”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “It's okay, Din,” Omera intervened, her hand covering his on her hip. “We don't have anywhere we can plant them anyway. Let's go—it's getting late.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Din wasn't sure if the sensed disappointment in her voice, but he felt it in himself. </span>
  <em>She deserves at least that much, </em>
  <span>he heard a voice in the back of his head say. </span>
  <em>She deserves better things. She deserves some little happiness.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Omera wished the vendor a good evening, then turned to leave, retaking Winta's hand. And Din was just about to follow them. Then, something on the vendor's hip glinted in the fading daylight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> An idea popped into Din's head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Go on ahead,” he told Omera. “I'll catch up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Omera hesitated for a moment, giving him a look. Then she and Winta reentered the thinning stream of people outside the stall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Din, meanwhile, turned back to the vendor and gestured to the gun on the vendor's belt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “That a slugthrower?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Yup.” The vendor patted the holster. “It's a pretty peaceful place, but you can't be too careful. Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “And that specific model—Westar, it looks like—it's pretty rare, especially around these parts. You a collector?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> The vendor nodded, but crossed his arms and clicked his tongue behind his teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “I see where you're going with this, Mando, but you can't just trade for something this rare. It's probably the last of its kind, and I'm not even going to tell you the trouble I went through getting it here. Look, I know your—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Another gun thudded on the counter. The vendor's eyebrows shot into his dark hair as he got to his feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Is that—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “An original Czerka Thunderhead? Yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> The vendor leaned in to get a better look at the Thunderhead as if he were afraid to touch it. Then, after giving a look to Din, he picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Remembering himself, the vendor checked his enthusiasm and put the gun back on the counter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Impressive. I mean, they stopped making those over a hundred years ago. And I've got to hand it to you, it's in really great shape.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “It's a favorite of mine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “But,” the vendor scoffed, shifting on his feet, “it's useless without—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> A small, densely-packed carton of bullets appeared from a pouch on his belt and plunked down on the counter next to the Thunderhead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Doesn't work with modern slugs,” Din finished the vendor's thought. “Plus,” and Din placed fifty credits next to the rest, “for maintenance. One collector to another.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> The vendor could no longer help himself—he laughed with the gleefulness of a child on their birthday, snatching the gun off the counter before Din could change his mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Hell, for all of that, you can have the flame-lily </span>
  <em>and </em>
  <span>some of those musk roses you were looking at earlier!” The vendor set the gun aside, reached across to the flame-lily bulb, and closed its case, sliding it over to Din's waiting hand. The vendor bustled over to the nearby musk roses—which, Din now knew, only grew in that specific shade of lilac-grey—picked what looked to be the choicest bunch, and thrust them into Din's hands with a little more force than he likely intended.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Pleasure doing business with you,” the vendor said, satisfied. “And hey, if you're ever in the area and want to trade more, name's Bazz.” He held out his hand before awkwardly pulling it back—between the flowers, the box, and the baby, Din didn't have a free hand to shake with. Din nodded his acknowledgment and turned to leave, until Bazz made one last parting comment:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Your wife's a lucky lady!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Din froze. Wife. </span>
  <em>Wife</em>
  <span>. To anyone who didn't know them—and that was a lot of people, a whole galaxy full of people—Omera was his </span>
  <em>wife</em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> It had a nice ring to it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> He stepped out into the street. The weight of the flame-lily box felt good in his hands, but he slipped it into the now-empty ammo pouch. He wanted this to be his first-ever surprise for Omera—the first, he hoped, of many.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Omera set the vase of musk-roses between two of the crates along the side of the Razor Crest's hull. That way, they would be braced against something—less likely to fall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> One of the roses in the center seemed to be shorter than the rest. Omera reached into the bouquet, and, careful to mind the thorns, pulled it closer to the front. When she was young on Alderaan, it had always been her job to arrange the flowers she and her mother cut from the garden. They grew so many that the vases scattered around their home overflowed with color and fragrance in every season. When she'd met Silan and moved to Sorgan, her garden of flowers turned into vegetables and fruits—which, to be fair, were just as interesting, if more useful. But how she </span>
  <em>missed </em>
  <span>tame flowers. For as effortlessly beautiful as the wildflowers of Sorgan were, Omera sorely missed cultivating her own, nurturing them, watching them bloom in their time, all the while knowing that she was the one that helped them there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “You like them?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Omera looked over her shoulder, then turned and took Din's hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Of course I do,” she reassured, giving him a peck on the lips. “How many times are you going to ask, love?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “I just...” Omera took a unique, private pleasure in how bashful Din became in these moments. “I know you had your eyes on the flame-lily.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Sweetheart, it's okay. I may never see one in my life again, but at least I have the memories that go with them. Those memories are better to me, anyway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Din removed his hands, snapped open a pocket on his ammo belt, and pulled out—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> No. That couldn't be. It couldn't. It wasn't. Was it?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> The lid clicked open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> There it was. The brown hull, the orange streaks, how they sparkled in the light—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Wha—but, I—how—how did you get this?” Omera stammered, her hands hovering just above the flame-lily bulb as if it would disappear if she touched it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Honestly.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> Omera's mouth fell open as if to reply, but she couldn't think of any words to say. Instead, she closed the lid of the box, took it in one hand, and threw her arms around Din, pressing her lips against his. She hoped he could feel every word she meant to say, every feeling she couldn't voice—every inch of gratitude for this one kindness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> It would be the centerpiece of her garden, wherever it would be—wherever they would make their home. And that garden—that home—would be worthy of this family they'd made together. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope you guys liked this one—it's a bit longer than the others. I really enjoyed writing it after doing my own gardening this week. Remember: don't be shy in the comments! Let me know what you think, and I'll see you Wednesday for the Mid Week Round-Up. :)</p><p>ALSO. If you can swing it, donate to your local bail funds.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Saftey</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Winta joins Din for her first hunt.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Can I come with you?”</p><p> </p><p>Din looked up at Winta as he finished charging his blaster, then over to Omera. She shrugged, denoting permission, before she returned her attention to fitting the baby for his new clothes.</p><p> </p><p>Winta looked eager enough, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands clasped behind her back. Din holstered the blaster and leaned forward.</p><p> </p><p>“Depends. Can you be quiet?”</p><p> </p><p>As if to demonstrate, Winta nodded instead of answering verbally.</p><p> </p><p>“And will you do exactly what I tell you to?”</p><p> </p><p>Another nod. “I will, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>Din stood, gesturing with his hands in the air.</p><p> </p><p>“Then I don't see why not. But first,” Din interrupted Winta's 'thank you' before it started, “I've got to show you some stuff. Okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay!”</p><p> </p><p>“All right. Meet me over by the weapons cabinet.”</p><p> </p><p>Winta bolted from the clearing and back into the Razor Crest, practically skipping with excitement. Din, meanwhile, crossed to Omera and leaned down where she sat on the ground, wrestling with the baby as he tried to wriggle out of his new, too-loose tunic.</p><p> </p><p>“You sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“She has to learn how to handle a blaster sometime,” Omera answered through a mouthful of pins. “Better to learn now when you're just hunting than when you're defending yourself. Besides,” she added as she took a pin and secured it to a side seam, “this one's being a handful on his own. Maybe we should divide and conquer today.”</p><p> </p><p>Din squatted and took the baby by his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>“Stay still, you,” he told the little one. “The more you fidget, the longer this takes.”</p><p> </p><p>The baby chirped and lowered his ears, but he complied.</p><p> </p><p>With a parting scratch to the baby's right ear and a quick kiss on Omera's cheek, Din stood back up and strode into the Razor Crest to meet Winta.</p><p> </p><p>Din was pleased to find that Winta remembered Rule Number One—don't touch the weapons cabinet—even though she was hopping from foot to foot. They countered each other as Din stepped in front of the cabinet.</p><p> </p><p>“Watch yourself.” Winta sidled out of the way as the cabinet swung open. “All right. Let's see...”</p><p> </p><p>It took some digging, but Din found what he was looking for. He withdrew his hand with the smallest pistol in his arsenal—too small for his own use, but the perfect size for Winta's hands, one of which darted out to take it.</p><p> </p><p>Din jerked the gun out of her reach.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey!” Din snapped. “You don't touch this until I tell you to, got it?”</p><p> </p><p>Winta shrank back. “I'm sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Din sighed, leaning closer to her, consciously tempering his tone.</p><p> </p><p>“It's okay, but you've got to understand that this—” Din indicated the pistol— “isn't a game. It's serious business, and you could get hurt if you don't know what you're doing. So you've got to just listen for a minute, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are we good?”</p><p> </p><p>Winta's smile returned, though a little smaller. “Yup.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p><p>Din kept one hand on the handle and balanced the short barrel on his other index finger.</p><p> </p><p>“This is a standard blaster. Barrel—” he indicated each part as he named it— “muzzle, handle, trigger, magazine—that's where you load your charges. First rule: never, ever, point the muzzle at anything you don't intend to shoot. It's either in the holster or pointed at the ground. Got it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yup.”</p><p> </p><p>“Say it back to me.”</p><p> </p><p>“Don't point it at stuff I don't want to shoot.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good. This—” Din tapped a tiny red switch just above the trigger well—“is the safety. Until you're ready to shoot, this button stays down. Otherwise, it might accidentally go off, and you or someone else could get hurt.”</p><p> </p><p>Din took Winta's right hand and wrapped it around the blaster's handle. Just as he predicted, it fit her perfectly. Winta's finger instinctively found the trigger.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Din instructed, moving her finger to the trigger well, “Until you're ready to shoot, you keep your finger right there.”</p><p> </p><p>Din took her other hand and wrapped it around the other side of the handle, manipulating her fingers so her thumbs lay on one side of the handle.</p><p> </p><p>“All right,” Din continued. “This is how you want to hold it. Left palm under the base, both thumbs on the left.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why? It feels weird.”</p><p> </p><p>In response, Din shoved one hand into the barrel, jerking it upwards. Winta's hands clenched, but the blaster didn't leave them.</p><p> </p><p>“Harder to knock it out of your hands,” Din clarified as he turned back to the cabinet, rustling through a drawer before pulling out the pistol's holster. When he turned back around, Winta had dutifully pointed the muzzle at the floor, holding the gun at an almost comical distance from her body.</p><p> </p><p>“You don't have to hold it that far away, kid,” Din said suppressing a chuckle. “It's not going to bite you.”</p><p> </p><p>Winta let out a nervous giggle but didn't alter her stance. Din knelt next to her and wrapped the holster around her waist.</p><p> </p><p>And suddenly, with that motion, Din remembered what it felt like to hold a blaster for the first time; he, too, had been a child of peace, awed and terrified by the prospect of holding life and death in his hands—cold, heavy steel, intimidating, not for its silence, but for its potential. With that memory came the sight of his father, doing much the same as he was now: kneeling in front of his child, kitting him up for training. Along with that memory came his father's words to his nervous son, which Din now repeated to his nervous daughter:</p><p> </p><p>“Don't be afraid of your blaster. It can feel your nerves. Respect your blaster, and it'll work just fine.” Din could have sworn he heard his father's voice over his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>Winta slowly drew the weapon closer to her body, readjusting her hands for a firmer grip. She let out a held breath that trembled on its way. Finishing off with the holster, Din tapped Winta's left hand, and as she let go, he guided her right arm to set the blaster in its place. He set his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. Or, at least, he tried to—Winta's wandered along the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“You good?”</p><p> </p><p>Winta hesitated.</p><p> </p><p>“What if...what if I miss?”</p><p> </p><p>Din huffed good-naturedly.</p><p> </p><p>“You probably will your first time. That's okay—good aim takes a lot of practice.”</p><p> </p><p>But Winta's shoulders remained guarded, her lower lip bitten under her front teeth. Din tilted his head, trying once again to make eye contact.</p><p> </p><p>“That's not the problem, is it?” Winta brought her gaze briefly to his, then immediately looked away again, saying, in a mousy, quiet voice:</p><p> </p><p>“I don't want to shoot anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>A chill traveled down Din's neck, branching down his arms and rooting in the pit of his stomach.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>Winta's voice picked up its pace and tone as she kept talking.</p><p> </p><p>“What if—what if somebody finds us out there? Or comes for Mama and little brother while we're gone? What if we have to kill somebody—I don't wanna kill anybody! I don't wanna—!”</p><p> </p><p>“Winta—look at me, <em>ad'ika. </em><span>Nobody is going to attack us.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“How do you know? They found us when we were home, what if they find us here, too? I don't want anyone to die!”</p><p> </p><p>“Nobody is dying, you understand? Nobody. Look at me, Winta.”</p><p> </p><p>And she finally made eye contact, her large brown eyes meager reflections of the fear Din knew dwelt inside her—a fear he knew only too well, only too closely.</p><p> </p><p>“Listen. We've been careful and covered our tracks since we left home. They're not going to find us today. And even if they did, you wouldn't have to worry about shooting anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Because I'll be there. Winta,” Din said, taking Winta's face in one of his hands, “as long as I'm here, as long as I'm alive, you won't have to worry about you, your mom, or little brother. Until the day I die—and that is a long way off, I promise—until the day I die, I will protect you. No matter what happens, you understand me? I will </span>
  <em>always </em>
  <span>protect you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Winta's face crumbled as she let out a squeak and dropped into his lap, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. Din held her close and rocked her from side to side, one hand circling on her back. After a few moments, he heard her mumble a 'sorry' into his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you sorry?”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm—I'm supposed to be stronger. I have to be stronger.”</p><p> </p><p>Someday, Din knew, she would have to be—Mandalorians, as a rule, were tough, resilient, fearless. But that day wasn't today; Winta wasn't a warrior quite yet.</p><p> </p><p>Din pulled back and wiped one of her tears.</p><p> </p><p>“Not right now,” he soothed. “Not here. Not with me.”</p><p> </p><p>Winta sniffled, wiping her face with the sleeve of her dress.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I still come with you?” she asked, voice timid.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course.” Din ran his hands up and down Winta's arms. “You can come and keep me company. Want to learn how to track down dinner?”</p><p> </p><p>Winta gave him a watery smile and nodded.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay then.”</p><p> </p><p>Din stood up, but as he started to walk out of the Razor Crest, Winta pulled him back by the wrist.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I...” she started, then raised her arms to expose the holster belt. “Can you...take this off me?”</p><p> </p><p>Without a word, Din crouched back down and unbuckled the holster from around her waist. Then he turned and hung it on a peg in the cabinet. It would still be there when she felt ready. And he knew that someday, she would be.</p><p> </p><p>Winta's shoulders lowered as she took a deep breath, letting it out with a sigh of relief. She crossed to Din and put her hand in his.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“No problem, kid. Shall we?”</p><p> </p><p>Hand in hand, the two of them walked back into the sunlight.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>As Din scraped the last of the noli stew out of the bottom of his bowl, he watched Winta let out a yawn that hardly seemed proportional to her body. She leaned on Omera's shoulder, nestling into her arm. Omera petted her hair, smiled fondly.</p><p> </p><p>“Somebody's tired,” she said with a soft laugh. Winta nodded, staring absently into the fire.</p><p> </p><p>Din gestured with his spoon.</p><p> </p><p>“We've had a busy day. It's thanks to her we've got dinner tonight.”</p><p> </p><p>“You're the one that shot the birds, though,” Winta interjected sleepily.</p><p> </p><p>“I couldn't have shot them if you didn't find the nest first. Give yourself some credit, kid.”</p><p> </p><p>He shot her a smile. Winta had proven herself to be a natural tracker; as soon as he showed her what a noli track looked like, she found a trail of them, leading into a thicket with a full nest. Two birds and a clutch of eggs later, the three of them sat around a crackling, cheery fire, stomachs full and satisfied. Winta sat sandwiched between Omera and Din. The baby was already asleep in his cradle, having eaten one of the larger eggs—raw, to Winta's disgust. And at the moment, it looked like Winta was about to follow the baby to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>“Why don't you go crawl in bed, hm?” Omera suggested. Winta nodded and, as she did every night, gave her mother a hug around the neck and a kiss on the cheek, which she reciprocated.</p><p> </p><p>“Love you, Mama.”</p><p> </p><p>“Love you too, baby.”</p><p> </p><p>And again, as she did every night, Winta gave Din a hug as well.</p><p> </p><p>But unlike every other night, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“Love you, Daddy.”</p><p> </p><p>Din's eyes flew wide as he looked at Omera over Winta's shoulder. <em>Did she just... did she just call me.</em>..? Omera's face broke into a beaming smile—she'd heard it, too. It wasn't in his head. It wasn't some hope that he harbored deep inside, but would never actually reach.</p><p> </p><p>Din pulled his daughter into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.</p><p> </p><p>“Love you too, kid.” He tried to ignore the slight waver in his voice and hoped no one else heard it. He hardly noticed when Winta slipped out of his arms and ambled into the ship until Omera's voice broke through the shock.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“She called me 'daddy.'”</p><p> </p><p>Omera slid closer to him and pulled his hand into hers, her smile only growing.</p><p> </p><p>“There's nothing like it, is there?”</p><p> </p><p>Din shook his head, a crooked smile growing from a tightness in his chest that didn't hurt, so much as embraced.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I almost considered not posting this today for Black Out Tuesday, but then I realized that that "movement" is doing more harm than good. Besides, we could all use a little escape right now, and I hope that provide that, even a little bit. Leave the real world at the door.</p><p>See you Saturday at our usual time (4 pm EST) for our regularly scheduled One-Shot, and tomorrow for the Mid Week Round-Up. Stay safe, and fight the good fight.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Braids</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Din braids Omera's hair and gets a bit more than he prepared for.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    <span>Din woke to a breeze of cool air sneaking under the bedsheets.</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>His eyes blinked open as he realized he was alone in the bed. His hand wandered the space where Omera had been and found sheets—still warm. Instead of the dim light that usually filtered down into the hold via the windows in the cockpit, a large patch of light spread across the floor and wall opposite the smaller hatch, open to the morning.</p><p> </p><p>Din glanced over to where Winta and the baby still slept. Not wanting to wake them, Din rolled over to his side, eased himself to his feet, and padded over to the open hatch.</p><p> </p><p>The dawn lay peach-colored over the glade where they'd landed. The forest of birches and willows surrounded the ship, forming light-colored walls around them—walls that didn't close them in, but allowed them the option of air. The river sang as it flowed by the clearing, stumbling over pebbles and its own little waves. And Din found his answer to where Omera was as he looked to the river's edge.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was washing her hair. To Din, washing his hair was a simple task—he did it in the refresher every other day. But Omera's hair...he'd never seen anything like it. In the morning light, it shone, dark waves undulating in contrast to the clear ripples of the river. It lay heavy in her hands as she wrung the water out of it, droplets shimmering all the way back down to their source—so many beads of silver. As she combed her fingers through her tresses, he caught a snippet of a song she was humming to herself, wordless, tuneless, and perfect. She was completely unaware of him, and completely oblivious to just how profound her existence in this moment was. Never in his life did Din believe he would ever see something so beautiful, but he couldn't help but thank—the stars, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>ka'ra</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>, the Force, </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>somebody—</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>that he, of all people, now had the privilege of watching the woman he loved wash her hair.</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>As she swung her hair back over her shoulder, Omera caught sight of Din, standing awe-stricken in the doorway of the Razor Crest.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Did I wake you?”</span></p><p> </p><p>He couldn't ignore an invitation into the moment. He gave a crooked smile and made his way towards her, the dewed grass soft under his feet.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I'm glad you did,” he replied as he knelt beside her and leaned forward, pressing a lingering good-morning kiss to Omera's lips. He nuzzled his forehead against hers, then leaned back to take her in. One of his hands traced the outer shell of her ear, tucking one of her long locks behind it.</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Have I told you you're beautiful?”</span></p><p> </p><p>Omera hummed a little laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>A few times, I think.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Well, you deserve it. You—” he took one of her hands into his own, pressed a kiss to it, “are—” he turned her hand over and kissed her palm, “beautiful,” he finished, brushing his lips against the inside of her wrist. Her fingers splayed as she raised her hand to thread them through his hair. She'd found that weakness a long time ago; her hands running through his hair was one of the few things in the galaxy that made his knees go weak.</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>You're getting good at this,” Omera murmured.</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>I've had a good teacher.”</span></p><p> </p><p>Intimacy...a frightening concept a few weeks ago. But now he wondered how he had lived without it for so long. With Omera, he fell head-first and did not particularly care to land.</p><p> </p><p>To his dismay, her hand withdrew as she brought it up to her own hair, the other joining it. Every morning, he watched as Omera braided her hair, but today, that wasn't enough.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Can I try?”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Sure.”</span></p><p> </p><p>Din shifted so that he sat behind her. Suddenly, he felt his inexperience coming back to bite him. But, as always, Omera was up for teaching.</p><p> </p><p>Her fingertips surfaced through the hair as she split it into three parts.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Take these two parts,” she instructed, indicating the outer two strands, “in your hands. Then pass them over the middle, one at a time.”</span></p><p> </p><p>It was one thing to watch Omera as she manipulated her hair. But it was something else entirely, something even more personal, to play with it himself. He wrapped his fingers around the outer two strands, silken with water, and slowly followed Omera's directions, passing one strand over the center, then the other, watching it transfigure in front of him. He took his time, committing the texture, the weight, the curves and shapes of her hair to memory. It took him a few tries to successfully bind the strands together, but eventually, the loose hair came together to a long, loose braid.</p><p> </p><p>Omera handed him a strip of leather over her shoulder, and Din tied it around the end, securing his work. And he was just about to move back around to Omera's front when something caught his instinct's eye. There was a little patch of skin, just behind Omera's ear, right where it met her hairline, which looked like a nice place to kiss. Without any hesitation, Din leaned forward and pressed his lips to it.</p><p> </p><p>Din heard Omera gasp. The boldness that had inspired his action started to ebb. He pulled back.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Is that a good noise?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>...</span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Very</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>.”</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Something had surfaced under Omera's voice: something earthy, something that reminded him of a ribbon being swayed, ever so slightly, in a quiet wind.</p><p> </p><p>He wanted more.</p><p> </p><p>Din leaned forward again, confidence renewed. He kissed her again, relishing in the velvet-softness of the place behind her ear. He wondered if the rest of her neck would be this soft, then wandered down to see if it was true, inch by inch. His hands wandered from her waist to her stomach, its rising and falling starting to become erratic. Of its own accord, his tongue darted out and lay against her skin.</p><p> </p><p>In an instant, her neck was gone, and just as he was about to apologize for overstepping, Omera's mouth crashed against his, a preamble of movement before her soft tongue slid between his lips.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <span>Din's mind went blank of words. Now, there were only colors, warm reds curling, sliding, braiding into each other as the slow spark in his belly intensified into a blaze. She tasted—well, he didn't know what she tasted like. She tasted like </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Omera</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>. Her tongue stroked against his, encouraging him to interact. Though at first, he had no idea how, he followed Omera's motions until they became his own. His head buzzed with those motions, the sound of their lips sliding together, the little touches of her breaths breezing against his own, starting to become ragged at the edges.</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Her hands were on his shoulders now.</p><p> </p><p>The back of his head hit the grass.</p><p> </p><p>He waited for the fire to settle down so it didn't resemble anxiety so closely.</p><p> </p><p>Omera was everywhere. He wanted to want her everywhere.</p><p> </p><p>The dew on the grass was too cold.</p><p> </p><p>A hand was starting to sneak toward the hem of his shirt—he wasn't wearing his chestplate—</p><p> </p><p>Din gasped, turning his head, eyes flying open, then squeezing shut again.</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Din? Are you okay?”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <span>Wordless, Din shook his head, the hand that had been on the small of Omera's back coming up to cover his face. His breaths shamed him with how fast they came. He wanted this. He wanted this so badly. Didn't he? Why, then, had he turned away? Why was it all so...</span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>?</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>Take a deep breath.”</span></p><p> </p><p>Understanding. Why was her voice understanding?</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I—I'm sorry—”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>Don't be sorry. Don't you dare. It'll be okay.”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>But you—you deserve this, you deserve someone who can give this to you—you deserve better—”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>There </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>no one better.”</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I want to be good for you—”</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>
    <span>And you </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>, love. What? Do you think I'll only love you if you sleep with me?”</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>No, I—”</span></p><p> </p><p>“<span>I already love you, Din.”</span></p><p> </p><p>The hand covering his eyes slowly fell into the grass.</p><p> </p><p><span>“</span><span><span>Even if we </span></span><em><span>never</span></em> <span><span>go any further physically, I will love you.” Omera's face was flushed, her eyes beginning to shine. “Even if we never so much as hold hands again, I will love you. Because I don't love you for your body, I don't love you for what you can give me, I love you because—because—”</span></span></p><p> </p><p>Lost for words, Omera rested her forehead against Din's chest.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>
    <span>Hesitating for only a moment, Din wrapped his arms around her, holding her flush against his chest, every curve of her body, every ounce of her weight a comfort. Some strands were already starting to fall out of his clumsy braid, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, smelling like a clear river, like birch, like </span>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>
    <span>.</span>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>“<span>I love you.”</span></p><p> </p><p>How had he never said it before? How had he gone this long, assuming she knew? Din repeated it, then repeated it again as if those three words were the only ones he knew.</p><p> </p><p>Omera lifted her face, resting her chin on his chest, now rising and falling with life, not panic. One of her arms wriggled out of Din's grasp as she brushed her fingers against his cheek. Her gentle smile felt like a remedy.</p><p> </p><p>“I a<span>lways will.”</span></p><p> </p><p>Din had never known certainty. But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this love was one thing in the galaxy he could count on.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hoo boy, that was a doozy to write. Hope you enjoyed it, and also that it wasn't too sappy.<br/>Announcement Time: keep an eye on my Tumblr (poetryinmotion-author) on Monday for a sneak peek at the first chapter of "Sanctuary!"<br/>Remember, don't be strangers! Reading your comments makes my day, week, life, whatever :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Bonds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which boundaries are established and ties are strengthened.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Din sat on the edge of the bed and polished his helmet as Omera rocked the already-sleepy baby in her arms. He was close to falling asleep completely—he could hardly keep his large eyes open. As she lay him down in his cradle, she thanked the stars that he was easy to put down for the night. Something else was occupying the air in the Razor Crest, something that had lingered since that morning.</p><p> </p><p>She had sensed early on that Din needed some room to breathe; the morning's loving had been overwhelming for him, and she knew that, to be able to talk about it any further, he'd have to decompress. She hadn't begrudged him for keeping a little space that day—she was more than capable of taking point with the kids. But now that both children were tucked into bed, it was just the two of them. And Din's pensive gaze remained firmly fixed on his armor. Avoiding.</p><p> </p><p>Almost soundlessly, Omera moved to his side. His focus remained on the beskar, which already shone, despite his polishing. Slowly, Omera lowered herself onto the corner of the bed next to him.</p><p> </p><p>“How are you?” The quiet broke with her voice.</p><p> </p><p>“...Fine.” Din finally set the helmet down with the rest of his armor, save the chestplate, which he'd worn all day, and seemed to have no intention of taking off.</p><p> </p><p>Right. Din wasn't a subtle man, nor was he one to open up voluntarily. She had to be gentle, yet direct. Tiptoe around landmines.</p><p> </p><p>“Din, I'm sorry about this morning.”</p><p> </p><p>He shrugged.</p><p> </p><p>“It wasn't you.”</p><p> </p><p>Omera shook her head.</p><p> </p><p>“You seem to be forgetting that these things take two people. I should have asked you before kissing you like that. I should have known better, and I'm sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>Din considered for a moment, then gave a conceding nod.</p><p> </p><p>“I wanted it, though,” Din said, turning towards her, but not quite directly facing. “I want you, Omera, and I need to get used to—things.”</p><p> </p><p>Omera smiled sadly.</p><p> </p><p>“But that doesn't have to happen all at once. It doesn't have to happen at all. Relationships take time to grow, and I'm willing to wait as long as you need me to.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “But I don't want to not...physically...I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>want you to touch me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Omera's heart clenched.</p><p> </p><p>“And that's fine, love. That's absolutely fine. You just need to tell me what you're comfortable with—”</p><p> </p><p>“I don't know how,” Din blurted, the pink in his cheeks intensifying as his eyes fell to his hands, limp in his lap.</p><p> </p><p>Omera's heart fell. Of course he didn't know how to tell her. If she was honest, she'd lost her words, too. Watching the embarassment crash onto Din's shoulders hurt in a different way than anything she'd encountered in her life. She wished she could reach across and take that mantle off of him, watch his shoulders lighten again, and look into his eyes and find confidence, or, at the least, the benign shyness she'd grown so fond of in the past weeks. But in that time, she'd also learned that Din wasn't a man of words—he was a man of actions.</p><p> </p><p>“Your hands.”</p><p> </p><p>Din looked up a little, his hands flexing ever so slightly.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>Omera brought her own hands close to his, palms hovering just over them.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it okay if I touch your hands?”</p><p> </p><p>“...Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Her hands made contact, wrapping around Din's, her fingers pensively stroking calloused, warm skin. <span>His hands were larger than hers, which she noticed as she laid her fingers against his, then linked them in the gaps. </span>She lifted their intertwined hands out of Din's lap and up to face-level.</p><p> </p><p>“Is it okay to kiss your hands?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>Omera brought his knuckles to her lips, pressing one kiss to them, then another. Din sighed, and from how his hands weighed heavier in hers, she could tell he was relaxing—exactly as planned.</p><p> </p><p>Turning his hands over, Omera moved her touch to his wrists and forearms, feather-light, inquiring.</p><p> </p><p>“How about your wrists? Is this all right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” he breathed.</p><p> </p><p>Once again, Omera brought her hands down, fingers wrapping around his forearms as she stroked them. Her thumbs passed back and forth, across the divots of veins, tendons, bones under skin several degrees softer than his hands. She stayed there for a moment, letting Din get acclimated to her touch. Her hands shifted until the space between her thumb and finger rested against the crook of his elbow.</p><p> </p><p>“Am I okay to move up your arms?”</p><p> </p><p>Din nodded, and Omera's hands progressed. Her palms braced against the outside of his arms. In a little moment of self-satisfaction, she gave his biceps a squeeze, pleased to find lean, strong muscle underneath his sleeves.</p><p> </p><p>“Nice and strong,” she mused, tone low. “Makes sense—you <em>are </em><span>a warrior, after all.”</span></p><p> </p><p>A little verbal honey helped the medicine—Din laughed under his breath and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers and pulling Omera in by her waist, as if trying to demonstrate just how strong his arms were.</p><p> </p><p>“Shoulders?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>On she went. Her hands migrated further north until they rested on the flat of his shoulders. Omera took her time, memorizing where every muscle connected, where his arms joined, where the shoulder joined his spine. Din leaned in closer and nuzzled behind Omera's ear, the hands at her waist creeping up to splay across her back.</p><p> </p><p>“Is this okay?” Din whispered in her ear.</p><p> </p><p>Omera's eyes fluttered closed as a damp heat descended down her cheeks.</p><p> </p><p>“Mm-hm.”</p><p> </p><p>Over his shoulders—down his back—</p><p> </p><p>Din cringed away from her hands.</p><p> </p><p>“No.”</p><p> </p><p>Omera made a mental note: nothing below the backs of his shoulders. She also made a note not to ask why, despite her own curiosity.</p><p> </p><p>“I'm sorry.” She brushed her lips against the curve between his shoulder and neck to sweeten the apology. “Do you need to stop?”</p><p> </p><p>“...No.”</p><p> </p><p>Though she would have been fine if he'd said 'yes,' Omera felt secretly relieved by his answer. In unison, her hands wandered up his shoulders, stopping for a moment to caress his neck before moving on to her target—a place she knew for sure was approved for her touch.</p><p> </p><p>As her fingers carded gently through his hair, Din buried his face in her shoulder and gave a long, audible sigh. This, Omera knew, was a sweet spot, that knowledge reinforced by how he sagged against her, pressing a kiss to her clavicle where it peeked from her collar.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “I'll take that as a definite 'yes,'” Omera quipped and felt Din's laugh as it rumbled between them. She coaxed another sigh from deep in his chest as she continued with his hair, stroking, ruffling, massaging; she found that untangling the mats of Din's surprisingly soft hair soothed her as much as it did him. If she kept it up, she knew Din would fall asleep, right there in her arms. And she wouldn't begrudge him that. But it needed to wait just a few more minutes. She needed to bring this to its conclusion.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Omera's hands fell from Din's locks to the sides of his head. Helpless, surrendered, Din followed as Omera lifted his face to her own. His eyes stayed closed as she grazed a kiss on his forehead, to one cheek, then the other. She even playfully kissed the tip of his nose, which wrinkled as Din gave a sleepy chuckle. Finally, Omera pressed her lips to his. Din's mouth went soft under hers as she guided him along, encouraging him with little touches—a light squeeze to his bicep, fingers toying with a lock of hair at the nape of his neck. Din's hands moved, one nesting between her shoulder blades, the other coming ever so close to her backside, both hands pulling her in, closer, closer still, until Omera could hardly tell where she ended and he began.</p><p> </p><p>When they released, and Din met Omera's eyes, she saw that his pupils were blown wide, reflecting a tenderness back at her that felt unlike any other she'd known.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you.” It was all she could manage.</p><p> </p><p>“Why?”</p><p> </p><p>Doubt started creeping in at the edges of his face as he looked away.</p><p> </p><p>“Ever since we've met,” he continued, “I've thrown everything off. I made you leave your home, I made you uproot Winta, and more than that, I haven't given you a home, some safe place, like you did for me those weeks after the battle. You deserve that. But...”</p><p> </p><p>“First,” she answered, redirecting Din's face so that she looked at him again, “let's establish something. You couldn't make me do anything, even if you tried. I could have let you leave. I could have let you go off into the blue to face this struggle on your own. But I <em>chose</em> this,” she shook Din's hands gently in her own for emphasis. “I <em>chose </em>you. And you know why?”</p><p> </p><p>Almost imperceptibly, Din shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I fell in love.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din's shoulders fell again, and Omera hoped it was out of relief.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>“I fell in love,” Omera continued, sensing some reservations still lingering, “with how you carry Winta as if she were your own daughter. As if you'd held her on the day she was born. As if you'd been there her whole life.”</p><p> </p><p>He glanced over her shoulder to the berth, where Winta lay curled up, already sleeping.</p><p> </p><p>“I fell in love with the care you show your son, and how he looks up at you as if you're the entire world.”</p><p> </p><p>A glance at the baby, quietly snorting in his sleep.</p><p> </p><p>“I fell in love with the way you wear your armor to bed, because in case you haven't noticed, I get hot at night.” Din couldn't help but huff at that. “And all I have to do when I get too warm is roll over and curl into you.” She rested her hands against his chestplate—even now, it had a refreshing coolness.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “I fell in love with you the minute you came to the village, because even though we'd never met, you were still willing to risk your own safety to protect us...to protect me. You were willing to lay down your life, even though you didn't know that someday we would be sitting here, on </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>bed, after tucking our babies in for the night, with the whole galaxy ahead of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>He still wouldn't look at her. But she needed to see him. She needed to know that any fears he had about her, about their relationship, were gone. Omera cradled Din's face and directed it back to her. His breaths were starting to stagger. His dark eyes shone.</p><p> </p><p>“I love you, Din Djarin. Because of your heart.”</p><p> </p><p>The tears in Din's eyes fulfilled their threat of falling. He lunged forward, yanking Omera back into his arms, burying his face in her neck. He whispered her name against her skin, his voice thick with exposed emotion, hushed with the effort of ensuring that they stayed uninterrupted. Omera wrapped him up in her embrace, careful to keep her arms around his shoulders, no lower.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “...</span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Omera bit her lip, trying to hold onto her own composure. He needed to rely on someone for once, and she felt honored to be that someone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Always, </span>
  <em>
    <span>cy'are</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Mando'a was starting to become more familiar on her tongue. “Always.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And with that, we finish up The Journey On. I may write some other little one-shots for this time period, but for now, we move on to “Sanctuary!” </p><p>I don't think I can thank you all enough for reading, supporting, and inspiring my work. Before I started with Clan Djarin, I was thinking of pursuing poetry full-time. But now that I've had some experience with writing prose, I'm planning on shifting that focus to novel-writing. Who knows...maybe someday I'll publish a real-life Star Wars Legends book. (That's the dream, anyway!) :)</p><p>Please, please, please, don't hesitate to comment! Your comments spark my creativity, water my crops, clear my skin, and make my heart sing.</p><p>See you next week for the beginning of "Sanctuary," Book II in the Clan Djarin series. Fight the good fight.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Lullaby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Winta asks Din some very important questions. </p><p>(Quick note: this short takes place a couple days after "Safety." Just had a little bolt of inspiration that wasn't there after "Safety." Enjoy!)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The lights of the city hovered in the distant valley, far from where Din had stationed the Razor Crest. This planet had no moon, so the night sky, shaded in deep blues and purples, only found light in a scattering of sparse stars. The night lay quiet on the high, grassy hill, interrupted only by the calls of insects in the brush.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still. Din shifted where he sat, stoked the embers of the fire before him. Instinct had told him he needed to watch instead of joining Omera in bed right away, and, though loath to relinquish that comfort, his instincts had always been trustworthy. Though the city was far enough away and so devoid of cover that he'd see anyone approaching for several minutes before they arrived, he much preferred to know if they were coming the minute he could.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A whimper from behind pulled his attention. From where he sat at the mouth of the Crest, he surveyed the hull. Omera lay still, blanket rising and falling ever so slightly with her breaths. He almost thought the baby had made the noise, until another whine coincided with Winta tossing in her sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din's heart sank. Another nightmare—the third this week. Almost as soon as he stood and removed his helmet, Omera stirred, sleepily calling her daughter's name. Din crossed to the bed before Omera could sit fully upright.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I've got this one," he said quietly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You sure?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You've taken point on the last two. I'll take it this time."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a low hum, Omera nodded and sank back down, falling almost immediately back to sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Winta's motions became more frantic; her in-dream protestations became verbal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No...lemme go...Mama—Daddy—no, don't hurt them, no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>—"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din gently pulled on the end of the berth, easing it out of the compartment. He bent over and moved a curl away from where it had stuck to Winta's cheek, wet with tears. At his touch, she cried out as if she'd been struck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Winta, sweetheart," Din coaxed, placing his hands on her shoulders, "you need to wake up."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Winta gasped and jerked awake, shoulders lifting off the cot. Her eyes darted around the hull as if she were still surrounded by whatever perils her mind had conjured. Din immediately launched into the usual litany of comforting words, soothing reassurances that her fears were not reality, that he was right there with her. It was only when she made a solid second of eye contact that it sank in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...Daddy?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Right here, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ad'ika.</span>
  </em>
  <span>"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You're okay?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din nodded. </span>
  <span>"So are you."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a shudder, Winta wrapped her arms around her shoulders and closed her eyes tight, took a deep breath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Want to talk about it?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Winta shook her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Want to go back to sleep?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hesitated, then slowly shook her head again, batting open her eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...Can I sit with you? Just for a minute?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Of course. Come on."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a grateful almost-smile, Winta slid off of her bunk, wrapping herself in her blanket, but leaving one hand free to take Din's. Her hand trembled in his, and Din took note of how much smaller it was than his own. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Back under the open sky, Din brought himself back to the ground and crossed his legs, fully expecting Winta to want to curl up into his lap. Instead, she sat next to him, bringing her knees up to her chest and pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. She fixed a long, empty stare on the city below them, releasing a shuddering sigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Normally—not just after a nightmare, but at almost any time, morning, noon, or night—Winta was attached to either himself or Omera, asking for a hug or to be carried. And Din indulged her in that; despite knowing Winta was fully capable of not just walking on her own, but running, skipping, jumping—despite knowing this, as well as remembering his own personal vow not to coddle any of his children, Din couldn't help how those big brown eyes caught his heartstrings and made him bend and take her into his arms. Besides, there was something in the action that comforted him, too. Feeling the weight of her in his arms, her breath against his neck or face, her hands clasped around his shoulders, grounded him to the earth, reminded him that he was alive, that he was needed. But for some reason, some concerning reason, Winta was trying to ignore him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And yet, what could he say? He needed to respect her wish not to talk about her nightmare, but at the same time, he needed to figure out why Winta was deviating from her usual habits, why she—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Can I ask you something?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din turned back to Winta, still placidly watching the town in the valley.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sure," he replied.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Winta shifted and fidgeted with the edge of her blanket.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...Is it okay that I call you 'Daddy?'"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whatever Din had been expecting, it hadn't been that. He shifted to face her more fully, leaning towards her with his elbows on his knees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Why do you ask?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well…I know you're not my dad. You know, you didn't...help make me. Mom told me my real dad died before I was born. And I miss him, you know. Even though I didn't know him. But I know you. And you say you love me. And you take care of me and Mama and little brother. That's all stuff dads do. At least, that's what I've seen everybody else's dads do. But you're not my dad. Not physically. So...is it okay to call you my dad, when you're not, you know...my dad?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The memory hit Din without warning. The night he'd asked his new father what to call him echoed around him—that night when he'd voiced doubts that were eerily similar to Winta's. With that parallel established in his mind, Din found a foothold. He took on the mantle of his own father to find Winta's resolution.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I wasn't always a Mandalorian."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Winta's eyebrows came together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Really?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Really. I was born on a peaceful planet in the Mid-Rim. I had a mom and dad who loved me, took care of me. They were my parents by blood. And I loved them. I still do."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What happened to them?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din's gaze wandered back to the fire as he recalled that day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"When I was about your age," Din continued, "my village got caught in a battle, in the middle of a big, galaxy-wide war. And in that battle...my parents died. Protecting me."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He felt pressure on his hand and looked over to Winta. Both of her hands covered his now, their trembling almost gone. Touched, he brought his other hand up to cover hers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"But then," he said, the side of his mouth crooked into a smile, "in the midst of that battle, I met my father. He saved me, took me away from the fight and brought me into his family. And even though I love my birth father and mother, I love my adoptive father, too. And he loved me, as if I were his blood."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What happened to him?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Thousand Tears. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But Din bit that pain back; someday, Winta would learn the tragedy of her adoptive heritage. But not tonight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That doesn't matter. What I want to tell you is the same thing my father told me when I asked him the exact same thing you asked me just now: </span>
  <em>
    <span>aliit ori'shya tal'din</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You know what that means?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Winta shook her head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"'Family is more than blood.'"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she smiled. Din found so much in that smile: relief, satisfaction. Love. And the familiar question finally came.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Can you hold me?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Without a word, Din spread his arms, and Winta crawled into his lap with the enthusiasm that came with resisting it for so long. Din brought his arms back in and pressed her close to his chest as she tucked her head into his shoulder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Daddy?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hm?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You sang to little brother when you put him down for his nap." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din thought back to that moment. It had felt like old times, when it was just the two of them against the world—just himself and the little boy he'd taken for his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Can you sing for me, too?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Din's smile grew as warmth pooled in his chest. As he brought a hand up to stroke Winta's hair, he started to sing. It was an old Mandalorian lullaby—one that his father had sung to him, and his father before him, and further back still. It was simple. It was quiet. And as he felt Winta relax in his arms, it finally dawned on Din how his father must have felt when Din accepted him as such ; it was an affection, a tenderness, a confirmation. It was a feeling that defied words.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, this was supposed to be a little more fun, considering the fact that I was inspired to write it because my nephew was listening to the absolute worst kids music ever, and I was like, "What if Din sang a little song to his kids at night?" Then...it kind of spiralled. Upload of the next chapter of "Sanctuary" will go on as planned on July 18 at 4 pm EST. See you then! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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